Angelic Muse
by Coralfly
Summary: The T/J relationship from Jess' pov. Slash. [Complete]


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Disclaimer: Tristan DuGrey and Jess Mariano are the property of the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino and affiliates. The poem used is _Rain_ by Hone Tuwhare and again not mine.

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Author's Notes: The second piece of slash I've written, the only thing I seem able to write at the moment. And it's a companion piece to _Behind_, but can stand on its own.

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Angelic Muse

__

Nor could I rise -- With You --  
Because Your Face  
Would put out Jesus' --  
That New Grace  
- Emily Dickinson

Poetry has never ever been his kind of thing. All that flowery shit, all that meandering…he doesn't have the patience. Recently he's discovered a new appreciation. Finds himself scanning certain sections of a bookstore, which he used to ignore. Worse yet, discovers his hand (on its own volition) writing words, which are lyrical, poetic. He wants to stop. But he can't.

Jess Mariano is gruff and insensitive. He has spent years building and refining his tough guy exterior. Life has been unkind to him. His father disappeared some years ago, ran off with some woman young enough to be his older sister. His mother, though she cares, prefers to care some distance away. Emotional distance. Like they could be standing in the same room and he might as well be in China. And he grew up in the streets of New York, not the_ nice _ones. Survival depended on not caring for anyone but yourself. He ran with trouble because his life was troubled.

Stars Hollow has changed Jess. Smoothed his edges like water does to stones. It's a crazy town. It contains people like Taylor, Miss Patty and Kirk. Insane. Or his uncle, Luke Danes, and the Gilmores…Rory Gilmore: his failed redemption angel, with big blue eyes, silky brown hair and porcelain skin. Her kisses are soft, gentle and tentative, like years of having a boyfriend called Dean haven't amounted to anything; balking from the thought of a tongue in her mouth. She believes that there's good in everyone, and with her rose-colored glasses it is all that she can see. She's intelligent, pretty, kind and all-round perfect. Rory is everything that Jess thought he needed, everything he thought he had wanted. Once upon a time, Rory Gilmore was going to save Jess Mariano from himself and he was going to let her. She failed. Or he failed her. And Stars Hollow is a town filled with people that care too much. A town bursting with civic pride. A town that believes in group activities and old fashioned notions of tradition and virtue. It's surreal. It's some fantasy; a made for television dramedy recalling the good ol' fifties. Stars Hollow and its residents are too nice, too sweet. He gets toothaches just thinking about them. In the end, a smoothed stone is still a stone.

Nowadays, he finds himself in the sensual embrace of Lucifer. Another angel. But one who will not save him. His Lucifer is beautiful. Beautiful and golden and the spitting image of purity…_spoiled_. And Jess would write poetry, sonnets, to his fallen angel. He would spite God, damn Stars Hollow, defy his family for one more kiss. A kiss from Tristan DuGrey, which is the antithesis of soft, gentle and tentative. His kisses are hard, demanding, experienced and seductive. He uses his tongue in the most sinful, wicked and utterly delicious ways.

Jess screams, "Oh _my_ God!" when Tristan goes down on him. Begs for Divine Mercy. Finds himself immersed in a new religion. Promises to make daily, no hourly, offerings when his Lucifer swallows.

He's unworthy though. Tristan is a DuGrey. Tristan with his beautiful, beautiful blonde looks is destined for greatness. Tristan says he doesn't care, says it doesn't matter, that he only wants him. Jess does care. Pretends that hiding in shadows is enough. Is ashamed that as long as Tristan is still there with him, it is enough. But his tough guy exterior is only an exterior. And he discovers that he's not really a stone - smoothed or not - but human.

So Jess has a new appreciation for poetry; it's something Tristan has taught him. 

"You _can't_ get into poetry?"

"Yeah. I mean, geez, it's all that waffling. Like why can't they just say what they mean? Black and white? Simple?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this from _you _of all people, Mariano."

"Like I would really be into flowery bull shit. That's more your department, DuGrey."

"Jess, you can't be a literature connoisseur and not like or, at very least, respect poetry. Poetry is…intense. It's layered with emotion and meaning."

"I can't believe you said that with a straight face. You're beginning to sound like my English teacher from eighth grade. He was kinda la la di la…y'know nuts. So I don't see the appeal, big deal. It's _only _poetry, man."

Gauntlet thrown, challenge issued, and he recollects how Tristan's eyes had grown bright and determined. How Tristan had inhaled, slow and even, before he opened his mouth and spoke in low and husky tones:

"I can hear you  
making small holes  
in the silence  
rain

If I were deaf  
the pores of my skin  
would open to you  
and shut…"

He remembers how the sensual, rhythmic timbre had washed over him; prickled his skin the same way one of Tristan's faint caresses does. 

"…And I  
should know you  
by the lick of you  
if I were blind

the something  
special smell of you  
when the sun cakes  
the ground

the steady   
drum-rolled sound  
you make  
when the wind drops…"

He remembers Tristan acting out the words. The soft pad of Tristan's fingers running over all of him, reading him. And then Tristan's face buried in that curve between neck and shoulder, making him groan. Groan louder and louder. Drowning out all other sound, though Tristan's voice had still rung clear and true. 

"…But if I  
should not hear  
smell or feel or see  
you

you would still   
define me  
disperse me  
wash over me  
rain…"

He remembers seduction.

"_Rain_ by Hone Tuwhare. It's not just poetry, Mariano." Tristan had smirked, triumphant, before claiming his victory kiss.

And now, Jess Mariano who never had the patience discovers that he does. His hand writes (on its own volition), whenever he thinks of blonde fallen angels, poetry. Because Tristan was right, it's not just poetry. It is much, much more. So he writes, and he's not sure if he really wants to stop.


End file.
